Villains To The End
by ScroogeMcDuck
Summary: Once the villain you're the villain to the end...or are you? What became of Fagin and the Artful Dodger after the death of Sykes and the fall of the gang?
1. Prologue

Prologue

_I'll turn a leaf over_

_And who can tell what I may find…_

_--_

Fagin straightened the collar of his coat and adjusted his hat atop his head. Yes, he thought, this is what I shall do. I can't go back, not now the traps are knocking at my door. I'm resolved; I know what I must do.

I'll turn a leaf over, start a new life.

That's all I can do.

He began to walk along the narrow cobbled street, the noise of his shuffling feet echoing eerily about the walls. Ahead of him, he could see the sunrise. This terrible night was over. He was going to start again, start anew.

He _was_.

Until the Artful Dodger stepped out from behind the bollard where he'd been hiding, leaning up against it without a care in the world.

Fagin blanched. How had Dodger found him?

"Y-yes, young man?" he said, trying and failing to assume a new voice to suit his new self. "Do I have the honour of your acquaintance?"

Dodger was perplexed; what was Fagin playing at, of course he knew him! Maybe he'd finally gone mad; he wouldn't be surprised after all that had happened tonight.

Wordlessly, Dodger pulled the wallet from inside his waistcoat, holding it out to Fagin with a small smile of encouragement. This would refresh the old 'un's memory, surely!

"Lined?" Fagin asked, in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Only the best!" came Dodger's firm reply. "Lovely workmanship, ain't it?"

Fagin's eyes darted nervously about; no-one was around to witness the exchange…He reached out his gloved hand and plucked the wallet from Dodger's fingers, opening it to examine its contents.

Well lined indeed.

He chuckled, hurriedly stuffing the wallet into his pocket.

Dodger grinned.

--

_I'm reviewing the situation_

_Once the villain you're a villain to the end_


	2. Stabbed In The Back

Chapter One – Stabbed In The Back

Where could they go? Surely wanted posters would be springing up all over the city if not now then soon. Very soon.

Dodger voiced his thoughts as he and Fagin scurried through the streets, going who knew where. They had to be cautious, they knew, avoid being seen. They had to find somewhere to hide…

"Where're we gonna go Fagin?" hissed Dodger, the sound reverberating about the alley.

Fagin shook his head. "I don't know, my dear…not yet."

"We've gotta get out of here!" Dodger snapped, exasperated. "We've gotta get out of London, else we'll get caught!"

Fagin shook his head again, wheezing a little as they kept up their hurried pace.

They hurried on in silence for a few minutes more; Fagin getting slower with each step. Abruptly his legs buckled beneath him and he crumpled on the cobblestones.

"Fagin!" cried Dodger, no longer caring if he was heard. "Fagin, gerrup! We gotta keep movin'!"

"I…know that!" snarled Fagin, wincing as he heaved himself to his feet. Brushing grime from his coat, he glanced about him as if trying to discern his surroundings. The streets were still dark despite the sun that climbed steadily higher into the sky above them.

"We go to Crackit's," Fagin muttered.

--

Toby Crackit was planning one final plan. He knew that Fagin wouldn't like it, neither did he, but it was the only thing to do. He checked the load on his pistol, sat down and waited. Hurried footsteps on the stairs below, getting louder and louder.

Still he waited.

Seconds later Barney burst through the door, his face ashen.

"B-Bill…d-dead…" he stammered, the words having trouble getting past his lips.

"Wh-what?!"

"It's true! He…he…"

Toby shook his head in disbelief. Bill…dead? Impossible!

He tossed his pistol from one hand to the other in agitation. Now Bill was gone, he knew, he was in for it. The traps'd be after him any minute now…he was a dead man…

Unless…

He aimed the gun at his faithful lackey, his sly grin returned to his face.

"You've heard too much, Barney m'boy! Can't risk you tippin' off the others now, can I?"

Toby squeezed the trigger. Barney fell to the floor.

--

Fagin leant on Dodger's shoulder for support as they made their way to Toby's abode. The house was in sight, derelict as ever. A light was burning at Toby's window; thank gawd, he was home. They were in luck!

--

Toby chuckled to himself as he shoved the limp body underneath the bed. Poor bloke. Didn't have a chance. He then scrambled about the flat, gathering everything he'd need into an old canvas bag. He was almost ready…

Raised voices.

More footsteps.

The traps'd come earlier than he'd anticipated.

The door flew open once again revealing three policemen, one with a heavily bandaged hand. They advanced towards him; one wielding his truncheon, another a knife. This wasn't unexpected, but Toby's arrogant demeanor wavered a little at the sight of the weapons.

"'Ello gents!" he said pleasantly, hurriedly stuffing his pistol into his inside pocket.

The coppers were obviously in no mood for chit-chat. One of them, the one with the bandage, started forwards with an angry shout, but another held him back.

"That's right gents, let's all stay calm…" Toby chuckled, pulling his clay pipe from his pocket. "Pull up a chair, lads! I'll tell you everythin' you need to know."

--

The two pickpockets were almost at Toby's door. They could hear voices from above them; did Toby have company?

Thinking nothing of it, they pulled open the door and started up the stairs.

--

"So! There you 'ave it, gents!" Toby said, placing his pipe between his teeth with a grin, pulling out his tobacco box to light it. "I'll be on my way then, eh?"

"That you will," said one of the policemen, a smug smile appearing on his features. This confused Toby somewhat, but he made to get up from his chair anyway.

As Toby, with a flourish, sprinkled the tobacco powder in his pipe, he felt something cold and sharp at his back.

"Thank you, Mr. Crackit. You've been most helpful."

--

For the third time that morning the door to Toby's inner sanctum burst open.

"Toby!" Fagin cried, not noticing the glazed look in his old friend's eyes, nor the unlit pipe still resting between his teeth. "Thank gawd you're here…we've gotta get movin'; the traps'll be here any minute!"

Toby keeled forward; a gleaming silver blade protruding from his back. Fagin and Dodger suddenly felt rough hands grab them from behind, throwing them to the floor. Dodger had just enough time to see a bandaged hand pull the knife from Toby's back before his vision went black.

"The traps are already here…"


	3. Party Trick

Chapter Two – Party Trick

When Fagin and Dodger at last regained consciousness, the first thing they were both aware of were the handcuffs; biting silver metal cutting into their wrists. The pain it brought hadn't been felt while they were unconscious, and they winced a little as the metal bonds began to sting.

The sound of laughter.

Suddenly, it all came flooding back…Toby falling forwards, stone dead, a knife glimmering in his back, the traps guffawing with triumph, a pair of them wrestling them to the floor and, undoubtedly, snapping the handcuffs in place…

Fagin cursed.

"Look who's finally awake! 'Ave a good sleep, you two?"

The voice was by no means pleasant or cordial; quite the opposite. Sarcastic would be the best turn of phrase on the whole; it was clear the policemen didn't care a button for the two handcuffed pickpockets at their feet.

"No, actually," snapped Fagin, struggling to sit up the better to infer what was going on. "It was quite unpleasant as a matter of-"

"What're you babblin' about Fagin?" cried Dodger, in a state much more agitated then the former. Then, turning to the traps and endeavoring to stand; "Let us go, will ya?"

Yet more jeers and laughs from Her Majesty's police force.

"We can do many things, sonny, but letting you two go ain't one of 'em. We were just waitin' for you to wake up so we could take yer down to the station; better for you to walk yerselves then for us having to drag yer!"

Dodger was surprised to find that Fagin was laughing along with the police; what was he playing at? Didn't he realize what was happening? Or was he, as Dodger had suspected earlier, really mad? He certainly seemed to be. But then Dodger noticed, even in the dim light of the room, Fagin's laughter didn't meet his eyes. He was planning something; Dodger knew that look…

But what could he possibly be planning? How on Earth were they to escape from this; a nightmare come to life?

"Tell you what," Fagin said, his voice laced with false friendliness and ease. "How about a little drink before we 'ead off, eh?"

The police looked at each other; one confused, one seeming to the like idea, the third suspicious.

"What do you mean?" snarled the suspicious man; the one with the bandage on his hand.

"Simple," said Fagin. "You undo these handcuffs and I get us all a nice glass of gin. I won't 'ave to go anywhere either, no need to fret. I know exactly where the bottle is…"

Dodger felt like smacking his head against the wall. How dumb did Fagin think the traps were? It was only then that he noticed Fagin was rummaging, albeit awkwardly with the handcuffs, in his back pocket. Despite his own frailty, and the handcuff's bite, it was the work of a few moments to procure a small, battered box. Matches!

Dodger bit back a grin. How typical of Fagin to carry bric-a-brac and potentially dangerous items about his person; who knew what else he had crammed in his capacious pockets?

"Well…" said one of the policemen finally. "Perhaps we could-"

"What're you thinking, eejit?" snarled the man with the bandage. "Uncuffing the criminal like that?"

"He ain't gonna do anything! Even if 'e did try summit he wouldn't be able to escape! We're police, ain't we Poole? Or are you just a twit in uniform?"

Dodger hastily stifled a laugh; he didn't want to draw un-necessary attention to himself.

After a few moments more of deliberation, majority won and Fagin, much to Poole's disgust and Dodger's hidden delight, was uncuffed. He scurried over to Toby's gin cupboard as fast as he could, hurriedly pulling a match from the box as he did so, making sure the traps didn't see what he was up to.

He wrenched open the cupboard door (it was old and prone to stick) and at once spotted the bottle. The police, save Poole, didn't suspect a thing; laughing and chatting away like anything. He pulled the bottle towards him and lit the match, clumsily dropping it into the bottle.

Dodger knew what was going to happen a second before it did. He bolted for the door, handcuffs or not, and kicked it open, running down the stairs from Toby's flat as fast as he could. Fagin, having tossed the flaming bottle over his shoulder towards the surprised policemen, was soon at his heels; stumbling over his own feet in his haste to escape. Behind them, the two pickpockets could hear the sounds of surprised yells and hungry flames.

They managed to exit the house before the flames engulfed it entirely; Fagin wheezing with macabre laughter, Dodger unsure what to think. They had escaped, certainly, but hadn't they just murdered three men? With _flaming gin_?

Once they had reached an alleyway far enough from the house as to avoid suspicion, Fagin sank to the ground in a fit of manic laughter, tears running down his face in his mirth.

"Ha ha ha! Those idiots didn't see it coming! Hee hee hee! They honestly thought I'd get 'em some gin? Well…I did that alright! Ha ha ha!"

"FAGIN!"

The old man abruptly stopped his amused recollections and looked up at Dodger.

"Yes, my dear? Something the matter? Don't see why; we escaped from the tr-"

"I'm still in b***** 'andcuffs, Fagin, that's wot's the matter!"

"So you are, my dear, so you are. I'll get you out of them soon enough, just give me a moment or two to savour my victory; there's life in the old dog yet!"

"Um…flaming gin, Fagin? Flaming _gin_?"

"D'you have a problem with that?" asked Fagin, still chuckling. "Old party trick, my dear, old party trick."

Dodger nodded wearily. Of course, setting gin on fire was one of Fagin's _party tricks_.

"Now can you get these flippin' 'andcuffs off me?"

"Of course I can, my dear. Just let me pick the lock…another little trick I've learnt…"

--

A/N: How else were they going to escape? XD

It's been far too long since an update; hope you enjoyed it! =) What will Dodger and Fagin do now? Will Fagin be able to pick the handcuffs? Watch this space, my dears, and R&R while you're at it! =P


	4. Farewell, London

Chapter Three – Farewell, London

"Flippin' 'eck, they make these things 'ard to get out of don't they!"

It was five minutes later and, even though picking locks was among Fagin's impressive repertoire of skills, the handcuffs were proving to be quite a challenge, and a frustrating one at that.

"I think that's the-ow!-point, Fagin!" Dodger replied, crying out as Fagin wrested with the metal bonds, trying to make them lose their tight grip on his wrists. He could feel his hands going numb and his fingers beginning to tingle with 'pins and needles'.

"Stop wrigglin' Dodge, for goodness sake-ah! There ya go!" Fagin prised the metal bonds triumphantly from his protégé's wrists, tucking them into an inside pocket and replacing the various bits and bobs he'd used to try and break them in the larger pockets of his coat.

Dodger cried out afresh as he saw the harsh red marks the handcuffs had left him with. His mind was still whirling haphazardly over recent events; had it been only an hour or so ago that he had met up with Fagin and handed him that wallet?

"Fagin?"

"Yes, my dear?" asked the old man, stifling a yawn. He hadn't gotten a wink of sleep last night, and no wonder.

"When I found you in the street and gave you tha' wallet, why'd ya pretend not to know who I wos?"

The question had been nagging Dodger ever since the incident and he was full of curiousity to hear the answer.

Fagin bit his lip.

"The thing is, Dodger…" he began, unsure how to say what he needed to say. He'd taken the wallet; hadn't he? He was continuing as he always had done; wasn't he? But he didn't want to get caught…he really should stick with his original plan…and get Dodger to change his ways too? Wouldn't that be impossible, to reverse everything he'd ever taught the boy? Would he even believe what he said; he was going to try living a new life?

"The thing is?" Dodger prompted, frowning.

Fagin shook his head sadly. He couldn't tell him he was going to go straight; he just couldn't. But…he could tell a _partia_l truth, couldn't he?

"The thing is, Dodge, if we're going to stick together, we have to get out of London."

Dodger looked, and felt, shocked, but he nodded. It made sense. The traps knew who they were, they'd be after them (not the ones Fagin had burnt alive; the rest of them in police stations all over the city). And yet he couldn't bear to leave London; it was his home. He knew Fagin's decision was sound, but he couldn't help protesting feebly against it.

"But don't you know of anyone who could take us in until this dies down, Fagin?" he asked, his voice gaining hope as he spoke. Fagin had often boasted that he knew lots of people; famous people, titled people; duchesses, dukes and all sorts!

Fagin bit his lip again.

"Heh…um…about that, my dear…er….you see…I never actually…I know nobody. Nobody that can help. All those stories of me meeting lords and ladies…I wos makin' 'em up…bed-time stories….you know?"

Dodger knew. He recalled those stories; the boys had all huddled round Fagin, wrapped in their blankets, listening, enraptured, to yet another of his grand and marvelous adventures, full of heroism and daring, splendor and riches. Fantasies. Fakes. But they'd seemed so real; he'd been so sure of every minute detail…

"Lady Secombe? Lionel, Duke of Derbyshire? Lord Oswald?"

"Characters, my dear. Mere characters. It's just you and I."

Dodger sighed forlornly. He should have known. And yet…although he knew he would miss Fagin's eclectic and colourful mix of acquaintances, fictitious or otherwise, a new prospect was dawning on him. Dodger and Fagin. Fagin and Dodger. The best pickpocketing partners the world would ever see.

"You an' me Fagin!" he said with a small smile, holding out a hand, all business, for the old un to shake.

Fagin forced a smile and took Dodger's hand in his.

Farewell, he thought. Farewell, London.

--

A/N: I must say I really liked this chapter. Poor Dodger having his childhood fantasies crushed like that. D: I'm trying to make this fic funny but at the same time a lot more dark and uncertain than my last fic; please tell me if I'm achieving this (I should think so; two murders in Chapter One, three in Chapter Two! Heh heh heh)!

You know the drill m'dears, please R&R! Much more is yet to come! =)


	5. New Leaves?

Chapter Four – New Leaves?

It would have been too risky to hire a cart, or any mode of transport which required another companion. They'd seen the wanted posters, even in their hurried flight from Toby's. Their only option was to walk; keeping to the alleyways and lesser crowded streets to avoid detection. And so they did.

Neither Fagin nor Dodger had realized just a how vast London was until they endeavored to sneak out of it. Sure, they knew it had plenty of toffs to steal from and hoardes of people like themselves; but the sheer numbers of such people had never really occurred to them.

Eventually, however, they made it out of London; not a farthing to their names with only each other for company. They kept walking, although Fagin frequently stumbled from hunger and fatigue. The suburbs soon faded behind them as they reached the countryside; a place Dodger had never seen, a place that Fagin recalled from the distant past.

The expanse of land was enormous, sprawling miles of green fields, craggy hills, plains of crops and, to cap it all, a sheet of sky. The sun was beginning its descent; their walk hadn't been as hurried as either of them would have liked.

"Well," said Fagin, seeing Dodger's awed expression as the boy gazed at the panorama before him. "What do you think?"

"This is one bit of yer stories ya weren't makin' up," Dodger replied, a mix of softness and hurt in his voice.

Fagin winced a little at his tone but then, he reasoned, at least Dodger hadn't flown off the handle. He probably should have done, after all that had happened, but he didn't. An admirable quality for a young gentleman like himself.

It was at that moment, however, that Dodger realized something.

"Fagin?"

"Mmm?"

"Where's all the people? There's no-one about!"

"Is that a problem? I thought we'd enjoy the peace and qu-"

"Fagin, of course it's a problem! 'Ow're we supposed to carry on pickpocketin' if there's no-one to pickpocket? Answer me tha'."

He had turned to Fagin now, his awe at the scene before him long gone. What did Fagin mean, by bringing him here? As far as he could see, there were no people about, no signs of human life at all. Where were they supposed to go? Where would they live? _How_ would they live? He'd always been a pickpocket, even before he met Fagin. Fagin had only helped to re-enforce the message; you've got to pick a pocket or two, he always said…

"Exactly, my dear."

It was time, Fagin decided, for Dodger to learn the truth.

"Wot's tha' mean, Fagin?"

All the anger, fear and grief that Dodger had felt since he saw Bill Sykes fall from the rooftop seemed to be manifesting in this one moment; his hands were curled into small fists, his usually cheerful expression now replaced by a frown.

"We…can't be pickpockets here, Dodger. We have to turn over new leaves. If we go on the way we started, the traps'll get us, even here! Surely you see th-"

"'If you go on the way you started, you'll be the greatest man of all time!'" Dodger spat back, taking a step away from Fagin. He must be mad…not be pickpockets anymore? "What happened to tha', eh?"

"That hasn't changed, Dodger!" Fagin cried, wringing his hands, although he wasn't entirely sure he meant what he was saying. "Just because you don't pick pockets any more doesn't mean you can't be the greatest man of all time! I believe in you, Dodge; you'll be a great man yet!"

Dodger shook his head, now glowering at Fagin. Everything he'd ever told him, everything he'd ever learnt…he had to throw away and ignore the past? Everything was changing, far too quickly and far too horribly.

"'The way you started!'" he snapped, bitterly. "Pickin' pockets, Fagin! Nabbin' from toffs! Tha's wot you always told me to do! An' now you're telling me to forget it all; to start a completely new life, out _here_?"

Fagin nodded feebly, cringing at Dodger's words. The boy was right; how could they start a new life here, turn over new leaves? There must be some work to be found here, but who's to say they wouldn't revert back to their old lives? Who's to say they could even attempt a transformation?

"I…I'm sorry, Dodge. I didn't mean-"

"You're mad, Fagin."

Dodger could hardly believe he'd said it, but said it he had. He was trembling with anger and frustration, his jaw clenched and his knuckles white.

"M-mad?" he repeated hollowly, scarcely believing Dodger had had the nerve to say it either.

"Yes," Dodger snapped. "Mad." He paused. Then…

"I'm going back."

"W-what?"

"I'm going back to London, Fagin. I'm gonna find the others and get the gang back together. You've had lots of stupid ideas, but this is the worst. There's no way-_no way_- I can change. An' if I can't, neither can you."

With that he pushed past Fagin and began walking back the way they'd came; his head in the air. He couldn't believe what Fagin had said; everything he'd ever told or taught him was a lie…

Fagin stared after Dodger, unsure what to do, say or even think. He was leaving him? Didn't he realize the danger that awaited him as soon as he set foot in the city once more? He'd seen the gang disband and flee before his very eyes; did he really think he could find them all again, start the gang anew?

Dodger stumbled and fell, grazing his knees, his hat tumbling from his head. In an instant Fagin was at his side, trying to help him to his feet.

Dodger tried to throw the old man off and keep walking, but his vision swam and he collapsed again. He needed food, he needed a drink, he needed to sleep; slipping into unconsciousness had never been so inviting as it was just then…

"Dodger…you'll be alright, my dear…need to…find somewhere for you to…sleep…"

Fagin's voice faded in and out of Dodger's mind like waves; at the mention of sleep he finally succumbed, his head lolling as he slipped into unconsciousness.

Fagin picked Dodger's hat up from the dusty track, brushing it off. He couldn't leave Dodger here, but he couldn't get back to London like this. Like it or not, the Dodger would have to stay with him, for the time being.

Replacing the hat on the boy's head, Fagin tried to lift him up, to carry him somewhere, anywhere where they could both rest. He felt his frail arms shaking as he lifted Dodger from the road and stumbled forward a few paces. He couldn't do this, there was no way…

"_There's no way I can change…"_


	6. You've Got To Earn A Bob

Chapter Five – You've Got To Earn A Bob

"Dodger, my dear?"

The boy's eyes fluttered open.

"You're awake at last! Thank gawd for-"

"Wh-what 'appened, Fagin? Where am I?"

"All in good time, my dear. All in good time. Don't worry; I've taken care of everything. We've got lodgings and some work to boot, with pay no less! Imagine that! A robber with a job!"

"What?"

"Well, I tried carryin' you but it was obvious it wasn't going to work. So, I pulled you over to the side of the road and waited, knowin' a cart was bound to come alone eventually."

Dodger listened, confused but intrigued. Was this another one of Fagin's tales? Or was it the truth? Had he really got them both jobs with wages? And a place to sleep?

"As I predicted, a cart soon came along. The man drivin' it, kind-'earted soul 'e is, stopped to let us on, said 'e was driving to the village nearby. So, I got on the cart, with you of course, and we ended up here, in this village. I asked the cart driver if he knew of anyone who needed work; turns out the local undertaker needs some extra hands to help make the coffins and so forth. He'll let us live here so long as we give him twenty five percent of our wages."

Dodger blinked perplexedly, trying to take in all of what Fagin was saying.

"How…how far are we from London?"

"Quite far. It turns out this village isn't as 'nearby' as the man said…"

"How far Fagin?"

"Some forty miles."

Dodger gasped. _Forty miles_?

Fagin misinterpreted his incredulity, as he was bound to do.

"Isn't it superb, Dodge? No-one knows us here! The traps'll never find us!"

Dodger nodded weakly. The traps would never find them here.

--

It had been two weeks since their flight from London. Working at an undertaker's had its ups and downs (mostly downs) but, despite this, Fagin and Dodger were relatively well paid for their services (although Fagin still bore bruises on his hands from the first time he'd used the hammer).

It would seem that all was as it should be; money in their pockets, a roof over their heads and food in their stomachs. But it wasn't. Despite their newfound living Dodger still yearned for London; the hustle and bustle of crowded streets, the thrill of hurriedly pinching from people's pockets and sneaking away undetected, the flow of gin at the Cripples, all the boys, Charley especially, Nancy…

He thought of all these, and missed them all bitterly. Even at work he would wander into a daydream, wishing he were back at Fagin's den where he belonged. It would only through Fagin's quick intervention that Dodger was saved from badly bruised hands himself.

Little did Dodger know that Fagin, for all his preaching about starting new lives, felt the same way. The undertaker and his wife weren't the best employers in the world and their wages, as he soon came to realize, were pitiful. Maybe they should go back to London; maybe that would be the best decision it was in his power to make?

But no. He couldn't just leave. How would he get back to London anyway? Forty miles of open country lay between him and the city he knew to be home.

And what had he been constantly telling Dodger? They were going to change and be honest men. But when he'd said that, he'd never realized that this would be his lot.

Many a night he traipsed down to the local tavern, drowning his hopelessness in alcohol. Many a night he'd stumble back to the apartment he and Dodger were renting, having had far too much to drink. He was blissfully unaware, in this state, that Dodger knew everything; he pretended to be asleep when Fagin came in, but he was always awake. Waiting for him to come back, lost in memories, or simply letting tears roll silently down his face.

The undertaker didn't care if Fagin came into work half-asleep; eyes bloodshot and baggy, hair in more than its usual tangle. He was frequently in the same state, so it didn't bother him. His wife disapproved, but then she disapproved of everything.

It was colder than usual tonight. Winter was drawing on, making ones teeth chatter and ones limbs ache with cold. Fagin, having made sure Dodger was safe in bed and 'asleep' made his usual way to the tavern. It was nothing in comparison to the Cripples but a pleasant enough place, with gin and other spirits aplenty.

Instantly upon his entering the pub the barmaid hurried to get his drink; she knew what he wanted; he was a regular customer by now.

Fagin scuttled to his usual seat, favouring the barmaid with a small smile as she handed him his bottle of gin. On previous occasions she'd tried to talk to him and get him to share his troubles, strange mix of curiosity and tactlessness that she was, but she now knew not to bother 'the gentleman in the corner'. He didn't like to be disturbed.

--

The grandfather clock, leaning casually against the back wall, chimed the hour of one. Fagin had been here since nine. And still he continued to gulp down the spirit in his glass, as if it were the only thing keeping him alive when, in truth, it was killing him.

But he didn't know it.

Even if he did, he probably wouldn't have cared. It would be better than leading this life; a life he thought would work out for Dodger and himself, a life he thought would be their salvation. What had he done?

Dodger's right, he found himself thinking. I _am _mad.

At length he heaved himself from the table and took a few, tottering steps in the direction of the door. This was the latest he'd stayed at the bar in awhile, this was the most he'd drank…he felt light-headed and woozy, having to clutch tight to the table to stop himself falling over.

Who was he kidding; he wasn't going anywhere.

He staggered back until he reached his chair, collapsing into it with a groan. Not only was he dizzy, he now felt nauseous. Cursing himself and his foolishly heavy consumption of drink he slumped forwards onto the table, head in his hands. Before he knew it, he was fast asleep; feverish, shivering, sickly.

Dodger glanced at his pocketwatch; one he'd stolen for Fagin mere weeks ago that the old 'un had let him keep.

Half past two.

He rolled over in bed, the mattress creaking in protest. Fagin's bed was empty.

"Where is 'e?" Dodger muttered to himself. "'E should be back by now…"

Little did the boy know; Fagin wouldn't be back for a long time.


	7. Doctor Dodger

**A/N:** Dedicated to Katarina Sparrow 19. Hope you enjoy it, my dear! :)

Chapter Six – Doctor Dodger

At quarter past five Dodger had had enough. He'd managed to sleep, but only for half an hour and even that had been fitful. Where was Fagin? True, he wasn't the most responsible and altogether sane person you could meet, but he was usually back before one…

He heaved himself from the bed, dressing hurriedly and donning his hat. Surely Fagin hadn't been able to stay at the pub for such a lengthy amount of time? Surely even he would have gotten bored of being in the same place for hours on end? Or maybe he'd drunk too much to care?

The streets were quiet as anything at this early hour, only the sound of a cockerel's crow pierced the still morning air as Dodger hurried towards the tavern. The sun was just beginning to peek through the vast expanse of grey; the early morning mist still lingered about the streets.

"Fagin?" Dodger called, pushing open the door to the tavern, apprehensive about what he might find within. "Fagin, you in 'ere?"

So he was. Still slumped at the table, dead to the world. Dodger felt relieved, but on closer inspection it was clear that something was wrong; other than Fagin's having stayed overnight asleep in the tavern. He was paler than he ever had been, deathly pale; beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Every so often, even in his sleep, he would convulse in a fit of shaking, not just from the cold that seeped through the cracked windows.

He was ill; even Dodger could see that.

He looked about him for the barmaid, anyone…but no-one was there. She must've left Fagin to his own devices even after the time came to close up the shop. His own devices being to consume so much gin as to make himself ill.

Brilliant.

Well, at least he wasn't dead.

Not yet anyway.

Dodger wasn't sure what to do; granted, this had never happened before. He crouched to Fagin's level and tried to shake the old man awake. Fagin's eyelids fluttered briefly, but that was all. Dodger knew he couldn't just leave Fagin here; he had to get him home somehow…

He gently lifted Fagin's arm and slung it about his shoulders, amazed and fearful at how frail the limb in question was. He could feel the bone thorough the skin; a sickening sensation. He heaved Fagin to his feet and tried to get him to walk; Fagin seemed to gain even a slight grip on consciousness at this sudden change and managed to totter a few paces, his eyes still half closed, his breathing ragged.

In this vein, Dodger and Fagin made their slow and painful progress home. The streets were beginning to come alive by the time they reached their flat and people stopped to stare at the pair of them; especially Fagin in his state of drunkenness and ill-health.

As soon as they reached their quarters Fagin staggered to his bed and collapsed once again, falling asleep almost immediately.

Dodger bit his lip.

What was he supposed to do now? Surely one of the lads must've had a fever at some point during their stay at Fagin's place; there must be some cure Fagin had taught him that he hadn't thought to dwell on…

Nothing came to him in the next few minutes he sat there. Dodger felt consumed with frustration, panic and despair; there was no-one he could turn to for help. The undertakers wouldn't help him (unless help constituted organizing Fagin's burial). He couldn't ask the barmaid either, from the few times Dodger himself had visited the tavern he knew her to be an idle and foolish creature; well fitted for her job.

He had always counted on Fagin to be there; looking out for him, making sure he was fed, sharing a laugh, praising him for his hard work…yet now his benefactor lay there with a raging fever. What was he supposed to do?

As it turned out, he didn't have to do very much. He applied cool cloths to Fagin's forehead to try and stem the fever, ensured he was in a comfortable position; he did everything he guessed Fagin would have done had the situation been reversed. Dodger couldn't help wishing it had been; it scared him to see Fagin so helpless and weak.

--

Dodger had nursed Fagin for two days and at last he seemed on the road to recovery. He wasn't strong enough just yet to move from the bed, but at least now he was able to eat and drink without difficulty. Dodger had barely left his companion's side; only to fetch the necessary victuals for himself and his ailing partner. By fetch, I mean steal.

Desperate times called for desperate measures, did they not?

--

"Dodge?" Fagin croaked, in the early evening of his second day a-bed. He hadn't spoken a word in all the time he'd been ill and so to hear his voice, feeble as it was, was an immense relief to his young friend. Dodger hurried to Fagin's side, scooping up a glass of water from the table as he did so.

Fagin took a grateful gulp of the cooling liquid before continuing.

"I'm sorry Dodger," he rasped, having shakily handed the glass back to the former. "I shouldn't have…I never should've…you're right…I'm mad…completely mad…"

Dodger felt tears of shame welling up in his eyes; were these the first words he should hear from Fagin after all this time?

"Forget I ever said tha' Fagin, please!" he begged. "I wosn't thinkin' straight, I wosn't myself…" He shook his head as he said this, his excuses were pointless. He'd meant it when he'd said it; he and Fagin were both well aware.

"True…and you think I haven't been? I mean what I say Dodger. This is…madness. My whole…stupid plan. Thinking it was possible for us…to change. It's…impossible. We can't just turn our backs on the past."

Dodger stared at Fagin's earnest face; did he really mean what Dodger thought he meant? Or was this a bout of madness, from the fever? He doubted his own thoughts, seeing Fagin's face so set, so determined.

"You were right all along, Dodge. We have to go back. Back to London. I can no longer fool myself that this is how we're supposed to be living; it isn't. You had the right idea my dear; I'm proud of you. You know what's best."

Dodger flushed at the unexpected praise and a feeling of hope and relief washed over him. Fagin was all right, and they were going back to London! He didn't care about the how's or the when's, the traps or the danger…they were going home, at last.

"Thank you Fagin!" he cried, engulfing the old man in a fierce hug.

Fagin looked surprised at the gesture, but hugged Dodger back, a smile appearing on his features. The boy's right, he thought. This is the best decision, this is what we should've done weeks ago, we never should've come here in the first place…

He released the boy after a moment or two, his smile still in place.

"Nah Dodge," he said jovially, snatching up the glass of water from the bedside table and raising it, as if toasting the lad. "Thank _you_."


	8. Journey

Chapter Seven - Journey

The fourth day since Fagin's excessive alcoholic intake; he was almost back to his old self. He and Dodger hadn't gone to work the past four days; a source of great amusement to him as he pictured the undertaker's wondering what was become of them. He seemed to find everything amusing; probably due more to the fact that they would soon be returning home and he was ridiculously happy and not owing to the fact that he'd drunk anything. In truth, he had yet to touch a drop.

Despite this amusement, the problem still remained of how exactly he and Dodger were to return to London. It was soon a problem no longer however, as Fagin had put his time idling in bed to good use, and come up with an ingenious solution.

Well, it wasn't as ingenious as it was simple, but Fagin wasn't about to admit it.

Thus, early the next morning, he and Dodger were making all haste towards the funeral parlour, with the idea of 'borrowing' their cart. Fagin had no idea how to drive it, but that didn't matter just yet. What mattered was securing the cart and getting back to London.

Luckily the undertaker's apprentice had been foolish enough as to leave the back gate open and it was the work of a few moments for Dodger and Fagin to enter the backyard. Dodger scurried to the stable to fetch the horse while Fagin waited with bated breath in the enclosed space next door, where the cart was kept.

The horse didn't seem to like Dodger and kept braying at the most inopportune moments. Unfortunately this alerted the aforementioned undertaker's apprentice who, unbeknownst to the pair, had been sitting nearby eating his breakfast, shielding from view by the whitewashed wall of the parlour. The horse neighed loudly again at the sight of him and for a moment Dodger and Fagin froze, like thieves who know they've been caught (which is what they were).

"Wot're you two doin'?" asked the boy through a mouthful of bread, in a surprisingly matter of fact tone.

"Um," replied Dodger. "Nothin'."

It was such a stupid answer that even Fagin laughed.

"Looks to me like you're pinchin' the master's 'orse an' cart!" replied the boy incredulously.

Fagin and Dodger glanced at one another and then, looking back at the boy, nodded in unison. Yes, that was what they were doing. How come he didn't seem more upset about this?

"Cor," was the boy's reply. "Tell ya wot. Gimmee five shillin's and I'll help you set the cart up. You'll need 'elp; this 'orse is a handful at the best of times."

Fagin and Dodger stared at one another. Why was he offering to help them?

The boy noticed their looks and shook his head. "Someone had to do it," he said with a laugh. "I never got round to it."

--

After only a quarter of an hour's careful work, the cart was hitched and ready to set off. Their kind assistant had even sneaked the pair a small burlap sack of food for the road which, he proclaimed with pride, he nicked from the master's larder. Fagin considered asking him to climb aboard and go to London with them, but thought better of it when he saw Dodger's face.

Bad idea.

"Cheerio then," said the boy, with a grin. "Good luck wherever it is you're headed; 'specially with that 'orse! I'm warning ya!"

As if on cue, the horse in question tossed its head and gave an irritated hurrumphing sound, indicating the Dodger and Fagin that they really should get a move on.

"Thanks for everythin'!" called Dodger over his shoulder as Fagin urged the horse the move, the cart rattling along down the cobblestones in a most ungainly fashion, making him nearly lose control of his hat.

Noah Claypole simply grinned and waved. He wished things like that happened more often around here.

--

The journey back to long was as long and difficult as was to be expected. This was Fagin's first time at the reigns and, with such a disagreeable horse, things were only made worse. On a few occasions, when they had momentarily halted their travels to eat or leave the cart to walk about a bit, the horse had tried to bolt (despite being tied firmly to a tree).

It took a day and a night to reach the outskirts of London. Dawn was breaking as they arrived thither, and they knew they could go no further by cart. They managed to sell it (and the dreaded horse) to a passing merchant in need of such a mode of transport (although they found it strange that he happened to be passing at the time they needed to rid themselves of it).

They returned as swiftly as they could to the streets with which they were more familiar in the way that they had left. Dodger was surprised to find that, now Fagin was fully recovered and seemingly unafraid of the dangers that lurked behind every corner, he was managing to keep up without difficulty.

At last, at long, long last, the den was in sight! Fagin did a little victory jig at the mere sight of the building, Dodger chuckled but didn't attempt to copy him. Doubtless Fagin had a copyright on victory jigs; he was that sort of a person.

They both hastened inside, not caring to check for traps or anything of the sort, so delighted were they to be home. The loft looked just as it had when they'd fled out the back way; bedding scattered here and there in the boy's mad scramble to wake up and flee, a stray hat abandoned in the corner of the room, a half full gin bottle, tipped over in the rush, its contents now absorbed into the woodwork, the bricks from Fagin's hiding place for his box strewn on the floor near the trapdoor…

"Strange…" Fagin mused, picking up the gin bottle. "I don't recall forgetting to take the gin…"

Dodger rolled his eyes, but he knew what Fagin was doing. Trying to lighten the mood. Being back here after all this time, it looked as if nothing had changed. It brought back so many memories of that dreadful night; the night it had all gone wrong, and their world had fallen apart.

"Well," said Fagin, after a moment or two's pause. "You nip along sharpish and fetch some grub…I'll start cleaning this place up…what a tip we left it in!" He laughed hollowly, nudging one of the makeshift beds into a straighter position with his foot.

Dodger nodded and hurried from the room without looking back; Fagin sat himself down at the table, cupping his chin in his gloved hand. They were back, they were home at last…but everything had changed. He hadn't realized just how difficult the transition would be; from Fagin and his gang to just Fagin and Dodger.

Left without anyone in the world, except each other.

He glanced over his shoulder at the place where he'd once hid his box of treasure. If only he hadn't tripped, if only he hadn't dropped it…all his dearest treasures, gone.

He sat, thinking in this vein, until Dodger returned, beaming with pride. He handed Fagin a string of sausages, a loaf of bread, two bottles of gin and two currant buns, enough to tide them over for a day or two.

Fagin smiled back and set about preparing the meal. It was so quiet here without the rest of the boys, he couldn't help thinking what had become of them. His dear boys, his clever dogs, fine fellows. Where were they now?

"Welcome home…" he muttered to himself. "Welcome home, one and all."

--

**A/N: **I thought Noah might want to get his own back on the Sowerberrys at some point. XD Apologies for any clichés and such in this chapter or any, by the way. D:

You know what to do, please R&R! =)


	9. Memories

Chapter Eight – Memories

The rest of the evening passed uneventfully, despite it being Fagin and Dodger's first night back after their flit. Both couldn't help noticing the silence of the loft, even when they struck up conversation. It just…wasn't the same. How they both wished to find the gang and rebuild their lives, have things as they had been. But, they both knew, that was impossible.

The clock in the heart of the city struck eleven. Dodger's eyelids began to droop, heavy with much needed sleep. Fagin, noticing this, steered his young charge to his old bed, and helped him settle down for the night, reminding him gently not to wear his hat in bed.

Bad manners.

Just because they were thieves didn't mean they shouldn't behave.

Right?

Fagin sang the gang's old pick pocketing song, in his tremulous old voice, to try and lull Dodger to sleep. It worked like a charm, but Fagin found himself fighting a tear or to at memories of their 'game' and the old song they sung.

He got to his feet again once he saw Dodger safely tucked up in bed. He returned to the table, lost in thought. He really should go to sleep, he thought, he was certainly tired enough from the day's journey to warrant a kip. And yet he couldn't shake off the feeling that staying awake would be a better option.

And so, he stayed awake, wiling away the hours in thought. What had become of the boys? He recalled their parting as clearly as if it had been yesterday…and that was no easy feat, considering his state of mind…

"_It's him. Bulls-Eye."_

_Fagin hurried to the window and, following Bill's gaze, he saw the dog. Behind the brute…a wall of people; traps, townspeople of all classes, some wielding flaming torches, some yelling, some screaming, all of them out to get him._

_He ducked away from the window, hardly able to see a thing, so blinded was he by fear and panic._

"_Quick, boys! All of yer! We're changin' lodgings!"_

_Bedding thrown aside, belongings tossed into sacks and bundled in caps in a mad scramble to escape. One boy cleared the table of all its food, knocking over a bottle of gin in his haste. The shouts and hollers of the crowd drew ever closer…out of the corner of his eye Fagin noticed Bill grab Oliver and run for the door…_

"_Bill! Why make things worse? Leave 'im!"_

_But Sykes would not be reasoned with. That boy was his bargaining tool now. Not Fagin's. His._

"_It's me they're after! But they won't go for me; not if the boy goes they won't! So you stay outta this!"_

_Little did Fagin know, that was the last he would see of Bill Sykes; his face contorted with a mix of fury and fear, his hands gripping Oliver so tightly his knuckles had turned white, blood, Nancy's blood, staining his coat crimson._

_Fagin hurried back to the boys, not sparing Bill a second thought as he fled the loft with Oliver in tow. He could take care of himself, he'd never get caught; he was Bill Sykes, was he not?_

"_Out the back way lads, come on!"_

'_The back way' was been fitted out by Fagin when he'd first come to the loft. If he ever needed to escape, he'd simple remove a few choice floorboards and scuttle down the ladder to freedom. Ingenious, if he did say so himself._

_One by one the boys hurried down the stairs. Soon it was just Fagin and Dodger on the landing, watching the boys as they fled from view._

"_After you Fagin!" Dodger, ever the gentleman._

"_After you, Dodger," Fagin replied, nudging the boy to get down the ladder, quickly. As soon as the boy's top hat was out of sight, Fagin began to scrabble madly at the wall, tossing aside the bricks the concealed his box in a frenzy. Finally the small wooden box was in his grasp and, tucking it under his arm, he too descended the ladder._

_The last few boys were starting to scarper as Dodger helped Fagin down the last few steps of the ladder. The shouts and yells of the mob were now at fever pitch; they had to run, now! One boy, seemingly unaware of this, was struggling to heave a bulging sack onto his shoulders (no doubt he'd filched some of the others things in the panic that had just ensued)._

"_Nevermind that!" snapped Fagin in agitation, glowering at the boy. "Get out of it!"_

_The boy set down his bundle reluctantly but then, reality seeming to dawn on him, fled like a frightened rabbit._

_Only Dodger and Fagin were left._

"_Fagin?" asked Dodger, a note of panic creeping into his voice for the first time. Seeing his old mentor as scared as he was; it wasn't helping the situation any. "Wot do I do?"_

"_Live up to your name Dodger! Dodge about! Sharpish!"_

Fagin snapped out of his thoughts as quickly as Dodger had ran off, not wanting to remember the rest. The gang had disappeared, just like that. There one moment and gone the next. It was then that Fagin had realized just how quickly one's life could be changed; the rug swept from under your feet to reveal the dust and the dirt.

He sighed and glanced at his pocketwatch.

"Quarter to twelve," he muttered to himself. He glanced over at The Artful Dodger, still fast asleep, snoring gently. He seemed peaceful enough and would be asleep for hours yet; he wouldn't miss Fagin if he nipped out, surely?

This idea planted firmly in mind, Fagin donned his hat and pulled his coat closer about him.

Time to visit an old haunt.

--

**A/N: ** Sorry for its horribleness, my brain is dead. The next chapter should be more interesting, don't give up on me, my dears! XD Please R&R!


	10. The Cripples

Chapter Nine – The Cripples

The pub was just as it always had been; noisy, crowded, smoky; the befuddled scents of sweat and alcohol filling the air. Fagin paused a moment in the doorway to take in the scene and soak up the familiar atmosphere, a broad grin stretching across his face.

He made his way over to the bar, somewhat amused at the reactions of people who recognized him. He hadn't been here in weeks; what did they think had happened to him? That he'd been caught and hung, probably.

The old man took a seat at his old table, ordering a significantly smaller measure of gin than usual. He didn't want a repeat performance of the last time he'd been in a bar.

The serving girl sallied off and Fagin turned his attention to the tavern's occupants, curious as to whether he'd see a familiar face. He did see a few; old acquaintances of his casually sipping from mugs or glasses, playing at cards, eating a very late meal…

But he didn't see any of the gang. He didn't see any of the faces he truly wished to see.

A sudden commotion behind him soon broke Fagin from his reverie. He turned to see what had happened and almost fell off his chair in shock, despite his glass of gin not even having arrived yet.

The sandy haired boy seemed to have forgotten about the glass he'd dropped or the shout of his surprise which had made many people stare. His eyes were now fixed on the man before him; he hadn't changed a bit…

"F-Fagin?" he stammered. Surely he couldn't be here, surely this was a trick of the light, or he was dreaming, or…

"Charley?" Fagin replied, incredulously. "Charley Bates?"

"The one an' only!" Charley replied weakly, sinking into a chair opposite Fagin. "Wot're you don' 'ere? I…I thought you'd left! Or…got caught!" He fiddled nervously with his hat, tossing it from hand to hand.

"We…the Dodger and I that is-"

Charley's mouth dropped open in shock.

"Dodge?" he managed to choke out. "Dodge is still with ya? I don't see 'im!"

Fagin chuckled, pleased at Charley's reaction.

"Don't fret, my dear. He's safe, back at the den."

Charley still looked anxious.

"Fagin," he hissed. "Don't you realize the danger we're in?"

Fagin rolled his eyes. "Of course I do!"

"Then why are you an' Dodge back at the den? The traps are everywhere; the wanted posters are still up! They'll find ya!"

"Is that what happened to the others, my dear?" Fagin asked, somewhat hesitantly.

Charley nodded.

"The traps know everythin'. They managed to trace Sykes to you; they know 'e used to work for you, they know all about the gang…" He tailed off, looking very uncomfortable. "A bunch of 'em got hauled off to the clink the same night Bill died," he whispered. "They all hung. But someone peached."

It was Fagin's turn to gasp, his eyes wide. One of the boys had peached, told the police everything! When Fagin got his hands on the boy…no, how could he? He was surely hung by now.

Charley nodded, seeing Fagin's expression.

"''Orrible, ain't it? After all you did for us!" A pause. "Me, Jamie an' 'Arry came 'ere; the Cripples folk let us stay, they know us. We've been 'idin' 'ere ever since tha' night…"

Fagin shook his head again.

"Why don't you three come back to the den, my dear? Dodger and I are there, the traps haven't been…when we got back earlier this evening it was just the same as when we left, I'm sure of it!"

Charley bit his lip. Was this a wise decision? After what he'd done?

"Well…sure. Alright. Sounds good," he blustered. "Just let me go an' get the others."

He hurried off, ramming his cap back onto his head. Where were Harry and Jamie whenever he needed them? The pair had been relatively new to the gang when it was forced to split, but they'd stuck with Charley anyway, not knowing how he felt…

"Charley!"

"Wot you lookin' so miffed about mate?"

Harry and Jamie had, as always, decided it was best to creep up on Charley when he wasn't expecting it. Harry, with his face of freckles and flaming red hair and Jamie with his brown curls and big brown eyes; they looked polar opposites when, in truth, they were thick as thieves. Partners in crime just like Charley and Dodger had been.

Charley quickly filled the boys in on who had just seen, and what they were going to do. Both lads were easily excited and this news was exciting indeed! They and Charley said their goodbyes hurriedly, noticing Fagin waiting for them at the door.

Moments later and the trio were walking alongside Fagin back to the den. Charley kept his eyes on the cobblestones beneath his feet, while Harry and Jamie chattered away nineteen to the dozen.

Fagin noticed the unusual change in Charley's persona but decided not to mention it. Whatever was troubling him wasn't any of his business.

Or was it?

--

**A/N:** Ooh, some suspense there! =)

Hope you liked this chapter; please R&R! ^^


	11. Reunion & Revelations

Chapter Ten – Reunion & Revelations

Fagin entered the flat unbidden, the other three quiet at his heels, trying not to wake Dodger. They needn't have bothered; Dodger was already awake, pacing angrily about the loft, a scowl on his face. He didn't even notice his old friends as he rounded on Fagin.

"Where've you been?" he spat, his hands curled into fists, his tone nothing short of livid. "Out at the pub again, were ya? Makin' yerself ill again?"

Fagin blanched and had the decency to look embarrassed.

"As a matter of fact, my dear-"

"Wot do you expect me to think, eh Fagin, when I wake up in the middle of the night an' find out it's just me? You could've gone to the pub, sure, but you could've got caught! Wot were you tellin' me about being caref-"

"DODGER!"

Dodger abruptly stopped his flow of accusations at Fagin's sudden yell. He hadn't been caught and he wasn't ill…but he _could_ have been! Dodger had reason to worry, didn't he?

Fagin coughed.

"I was actually trying to draw your attention to these three, my dear. I don't deny that I went out for a little drink…but look who found me!" He grinned sheepishly at Dodger, by way of apology, but Dodger didn't notice; his eyes fixed on those of his old friends.

"CHARLEY!"

"DODGE!"

The two boys engulfed each other in hugs, while Fagin, Jamie and Harry looked on, the latter two giggling at the fact that Dodger and Charley were embracing. Realizing this, the older two sprang apart and instead rounded playfully on the younger boys, trying to hug them too.

Pandemonium soon ensued, the younger boys squealing and squirming to escape, Charley and Dodger laughing their heads off as they began to tickle their victims instead.

Fagin too was laughing; it was so pleasant to have some of the boys back. He suspected these four had always been the loudest, which made it all the better. No longer would the loft be eerily quiet and lifeless.

Eventually the boys grew tired of their game and gathered around the table. Fagin poured them all a drink, and they engaged themselves in pleasant conversation for awhile. Dodger related all his and Fagin's countryside escapades, while Charley, Jamie and Harry brought the other two up to date with the happenings in London.

Despite the fact that it had been almost a month since the murder of Nancy and the death of Sykes the traps were still on the lookout for Fagin and any of his acquaintances. Meaning them. No matter where they went, they were in danger.

Charley and the others had, like Fagin, first fled to Toby's house, but Toby hadn't let them in. Because he was going to betray them to the traps. Peach on them all. But the three boys hadn't known this. Having left Toby's, cold, scared and confused they'd gone to the Cripples where, thankfully, they'd been allowed to stay.

But they'd seen the wanted posters, they knew the danger. They knew what would happen if they got caught.

As the conversation veered in this direction, Charley's good humor seemed strained once again, and he fidgeted nervously with his hat. Harry and Jamie, getting tired from the day's excitement, didn't seem to notice. That wasn't to say Dodger and Fagin didn't. Why was he acting this way? They couldn't tell.

A few minutes later and it was clear that Harry and Jamie needed to retire to their beds. This they did, with Fagin's help and it was soon just he, Dodger and Charley, grouped about the fire.

"I'm glad you came back, and brought the lads with you Charley, my dear…" Fagin said with a small smile, which Charley duly returned. "But I can't help wondering…"

"Wonderin' wot?" Charley asked, the colour draining from his face.

"Well…you don't seem…altogether yourself, my dear. What's the matter?"

"Fagin!" cried Dodger, with a roll of his eyes. "No wonder Charley ain't 'imself! We're all in danger, ain't we?"

"True," Fagin said, with a nod. "True."

"So why're you pickin' on 'im then?"

"Because, I'm afraid, Charley is not just himself for fear of getting caught. There's another reason, isn't there?"

Dodger frowned; what on Earth was Fagin talking about? He glanced at Charley; his friend averted his eyes, instead gazing forlornly into the fire. How had Fagin known?

"Whenever the subject of peaching's come up, young Master Bates here has gone as quiet as anything!" Fagin continued. "Is there something you aren't telling us, Charley?"

His voice wasn't at all friendly now. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Charley shrank back in his chair, biting his lip.

Dodger gasped. No…this was impossible! What was Fagin thinking, what was he saying?

"You're the one that peached, Charley. You told the traps all about us!"

"What?" cried Dodger, fear and shock engulfing him. 'Fagin, what on Earth-"

He stopped in his exclamation as he saw Charley nod, his face petrified and shameful all at once. Dodger could hardly find the words to say; how could Charley have betrayed them? After all these years? And for what purpose?

"W-Why?" he stammered, staring Charley full in the face. This was impossible, it didn't make sense…

"Can't you see?" Charley cried. "See what happened to Bill? He's been in the clink before, an' then 'e got killed by the traps. Toby got killed by 'em too! Bill murdered Nancy! Can't you two see wot a mess this life is? You really want to stay 'ere, stealin' food just to live through the night, always lookin' over yer shoulder to see death at yer heels…" He tailed off, getting to his feet.

Dodger stared incredulously at him, Fagin still appeared angry. How could Charley say these things? Then, he realized, he was being hypocritical. Hadn't he and Dodger ran away to turn over new leaves? Wasn't that what Charley was trying to do now; trying to escape this life while he could?

"I'm sorry Fagin. I'm sorry Dodge. I shouldn't have peached on you but I couldn't think wot else to do. Can't you see this is wrong?"

With that, Charley Bates turned on his heel and fled the den, without a last look back.

**A/N:** Sorry Charley fans, but it had to be. For the sake of my plot. You know.

Poor little guy. D: Gaah, I'm so cruel.

R&R m'dears!


	12. Sweet Dreams

Chapter Eleven – Sweet Dreams

Dodger had, of course, hurried after Charley. He was his best friend, after all. He wanted desperately to tell him that he had misunderstood them, they'd tried to change, they didn't want him to leave…but Charley was gone.

Dejected, Dodger made his way back to the den, his head hanging with guilt and shame. Charley was right, he realized. Why had he and Fagin been so eager to rebuild their old lives? Why had-

_Fagin._

Fagin was the reason Charley had run away. Why hadn't he kept his trap shut and let Charley be? Then this whole mess would never have happened; they'd still be sitting by the fire now, chatting and laughing away like old times…

Dodger stormed back into the den, refusing to speak to or even look at Fagin as he made his way to his bed. He couldn't believe what Fagin had done; he'd tried to change, hadn't he, and yet he brought all the guilt of the transformation onto Charley!

It wasn't fair.

"He peached on us Dodge," Fagin said, he voice echoing somewhat in the near silence of the loft. "How did you expect me to react?"

Dodger scowled, not wanting to look at Fagin and see his expression. Doubtless he'd be looking innocent, as if it wasn't his fault that Charley had fled and left them forever. He'd be feeling the victim, when in reality that was Charley's role.

"He's our friend, Fagin," Dodger said coldly. "Our _friend_. One of the gang, remember?"

"But Dodger, he-"

"An' you made 'im run off like tha', just fer doin' wot's right!"

"Peachin' isn't right Dodge, you know that."

"Kickin' out a friend ain't right either."

"I didn't kick him out, he chose to leave!"

"You implied tha' 'e should! Why'd you 'ave to say tha' Fagin? You made 'im leave!"

Dodger had turned to face Fagin now, much as he didn't want to, his frown back in place. Fagin was seated at the table, picking out the stitches from one of the old pocket handkerchiefs, intent on his work.

"I did not, my dear. He left of his own free will."

Dodger sighed irritably, knowing that it was pointless to argue with Fagin when he had so firmly made up his mind. He turned on his heel and stalked over to his bed, burrowing under the covers and trying to compose his mind to sleep.

"Goodnight, my dear!" Fagin called.

Dodger ignored him and rolled over on his side, squeezing his eyes tight shut to blot out the moonlight filtering through the cracked windows.

Soon, to his great relief, he felt sleep wash over him.

"_Can't you see this is wrong?"_

"_You were right all along, Dodge. We have to go back. Back to London."_

"'_E peached on us Dodge…"_

"_I can no longer fool myself that this is how we're supposed to be living; it isn't. You had the right idea my dear."_

"_You're mad, Fagin."_

"_Can't you two see wot a mess this life is? You really want to stay 'ere, stealin' food just to live through the night, always lookin' over yer shoulder to see death at yer heels…"_

"_We're all in danger, ain't we?"_

"_Quick boys! All of yer! We're changin' lodgings!"_

"_If you go on the way you started, you'll be the greatest man of all time…"_

"_We can do many things, sonny, but letting you two go ain't one of 'em."_

"_Characters, my dear. Mere characters. It's just you and I."_

"_There's…blood…on your coat. Bill…Bill Sykes! What did you do? /What did you do?/"_

"_She won't peach on nobody no more."_

Dodger jolted awake, his head pounding, tears in his eyes.

Nancy…

He glanced over to where he'd last seen Fagin. The man was still there, dozing in his armchair. Harry and Jamie were both still asleep; Jamie sucking his thumb like the little child he was.

Only after making sure everyone was asleep could Dodger let his tears fall freely.

--

**A/N:** I thought a certain reviewer of mine might appreciate some Dodger/Nancy-ness in the midst of my sad and scary plot. XD –pokes-

Please R&R people; I hope that chapter lived up to your expectations! =)


	13. For Good?

Chapter Twelve – For Good?

When Dodger awoke it was to find Harry and Jamie seated at the table, wolfing down a hearty breakfast of sausages and toast as if their lives depended on it. A fresh wave of grief washed over Dodger at not seeing Charley among the merry group. With a sigh he got up from bed and donned his hat, moving to join the proceedings without his usual air of cheerfulness.

"Good morning Dodger!" Fagin called brightly from his place hunched over the fire. "I'll have some more grub for you in a moment, my dear…"

Dodger sat himself down at the table and poured himself a cup of gin and water. Harry and Jamie didn't look the least bit surprised to find Charley not among them (Fagin had, in fact, lied and told them Charley was already out on the job for the day).

"Here you go!" said Fagin triumphantly, presenting Dodger with a steaming plateful of food. It smelt heavenly and, despite himself, Dodger was soon guzzling away like the other two boys. He was surprised to find that, this morning, the sausages weren't as bad as usual.

He grinned up at Fagin, and Fagin grinned back.

"I was surprised myself," he admitted. "But it must be a good thing, eh?"

Dodger nodded and downed the rest of his gin, wondering what had put Fagin in such a good mood. Even he, with a full stomach, wasn't as mad at the man as he had been before. Things looked better in the morning, or so the phrase went. Today, it seemed to be ringing true.

"Now then, my dears…" Fagin said with an air of a businessman presenting a new and innovative idea. "This morning, I want you all to do a bit of work for me."

Harry and Jamie nodded eagerly but Dodger's heart sank. He sincerely hoped that Fagin wasn't going to say what he thought he was going to say…

"I want you three to go out on the job, just like the old days. You'll do that for me, won't you my dears?"

Dodger noticed, with an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, that Fagin's gaze was directed at him as he said this. Clearly, even in the light of day, the previous night's confrontation had not been forgotten. Dodger quickly averted his eyes, pretending to be fascinated by his empty gin mug.

Harry and Jamie, meanwhile, were hurrying about to pull on their hats and boots, exclaiming with delight, not realizing the danger that awaited them as soon as they set foot out of the door. What was it Charley had said…they were all being looked out for by the traps, they were in more danger than ever before…

All too soon Dodger heard the door slam. He looked up from his empty tankard; the two boys were gone, their laughter and chat dying away along with their footsteps. He then noticed Fagin, seated opposite him now, his fingers steepled before him. Dodger tensed, expecting a rebuke for not going along with the boys.

"What's wrong, my dear?"

Instead, he was surprised to find Fagin facing him with a worried expression on his wrinkled face, biting his lip.

"I know you're upset about Charley leaving my dear…you were right, once again…I made him feel he had to leave, I piled up guilt against him for what he did…"

"But it's wot we tried to do…" Dodger finished.

"Exactly. If there was any way I could bring him back for you my dear, I would. But I don't see what can be done…." Fagin sighed heavily. "What's happening, Dodge? I used to be brilliant at coming up with schemes to get us out of trouble, to keep us safe…and now look at me. I can't even bring your friend back, let alone stop the traps getting us…"

Dodger felt sorry for Fagin then; truly sorry. He knew how it felt; to be at the top of your game and then having everything fall apart. He knew, Charley knew, the lads knew, Fagin knew. It was his turn to sigh.

"I'm sorry Fagin, I shouldn't 'ave made you feel guilty about-"

"Say no more, my dear. I deserved it."

An awkward pause.

"I know I'm repeatin' wot Charley said, but isn't it dangerous to go out on the job? At a time like this?"

"It's always been this way Dodge. The traps are just a bit more aware…that's all. Of only Bill hadn't-"

He stopped himself saying it; he couldn't bear to. Even at the mention of Bill's name Dodger and gone white, his fists had clenched. But at the same time, tears had sprung in his eyes.

Fagin coughed awkwardly, trying desperately to think of something less tactless to say.

"Uh…well…if you don't want to go out today, my dear, I understand. You could-"

"No, it's alright Fagin. I'll go."

Dodger had to get out of the flat, even if he didn't feel like picking any pockets. The place was too choked up with old memories, hopes and cares. He had to escape.

"As you wish, my dear, as you wish."

Dodger smiled and got up to leave, adjusting his hat atop his head as he did so. But even as the familiar sounds of the London street filled his ears, he couldn't help but wonder if returning to their old life was for better or worse, for good or bad.

Would it last?

Could it last?

--

**A/N:** Oh snap. My mind is going. D: I need plot ideas people! –head desk-

I'm sooo sorry, that chapter wasn't as great as I thought it would be…doesn't mean you shouldn't R&R though like the lovely people you are. ;)


	14. Remember Our Old Tune

Chapter Thirteen – Remember Our Old Tune

It was noon. Despite his original misgivings, Dodger had ended up picking a few pockets, if only to keep Fagin happy. He had found himself a wall which was low enough to sit on and eat his lunch (although all the while he still kept his eyes peeled for traps, despite the fact he looked as if he was doing nothing wrong).

He had realized, over the course of the morning, how much he had taken for granted before all of this. He'd taken it for granted that he wouldn't get caught; he was Fagin's best lad, after all. He'd been sure not to get caught, of course, but he'd been so sure of himself, so cocky about the whole thing… When he'd picked that toff's wallet he'd only really done it to impress that kid Oliver, it hadn't even been that heavy!

Oliver…

He chewed on his lip, having finished his small meal without a second thought. Was it all his fault that everything had happened? He'd brought Oliver back to the den with him, hadn't he? Was he the reason all this had happened; Nancy's murder, Bill's death, Toby being killed by the traps, himself and Fagin getting caught…did it all lead back to him? Or did it all lead to Oliver?

Or was it simply fate's way of telling them all to stop picking pockets?

Lost in thought, Dodger hopped off the wall, brushing crumbs absentmindedly from his waistcoat, scanning the crowded street once more for a prime plant. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and began to amble along, adapting his usual air of youthful gentility as he made his way.

He was so busy looking for someone's pocket to pick that he almost didn't spot the boy; the one with sandy hair, in a fine silk suit, a hat atop his head, a bundle of books under one arm, accompanied by a well to do looking gentleman in a purple frock coat.

He started in surprise.

Oliver and Mr. Brownlow? What on Earth…how…why…

What were they doing here?

Should he approach them and greet Oliver as an old friend? Or simply let them walk on by and leave them alone? What purpose would it serve to greet the boy; what if, despite everything, he'd told Brownlow about him and Fagin; surely the old man would have wanted to know about what Oliver had been through?

"Dodger?"

Dodger cursed inwardly. Today's lesson: never dawdle on the pavement in case an ex-member of the gang who probably had peached on you spots you and decides to strike up conversation.

Should he answer him? Should he run?

Before he could make up his mind Oliver was in front of him, a small smile on his pale face. He hadn't changed; his permanent look of un-nerving innocence and naivety still lingered about his countenance. Dodger noticed, with a small tingle of relief, that Brownlow was nowhere to be seen.

"Don't worry," Oliver said, noticing Dodger's look. "He's gone into that bookshop there."

"Tha' ain't wot I'm worried about," Dodger replied, not sure how to make his voice sound. Accusing? Anxious? Superior? How was he supposed to feel about this meeting?

"I'm ever so sorry to have startled you," the smaller boy continued, looking uncomfortable. "I just…" He tailed off, hurriedly stepping to the side to let a harried looking businessman pass. "How…how are you? How's Mister Fagin? And Charley?"

"Fine," said Dodger stiffly, hating the way his friend's names sounded coming from Oliver's mouth. "Just fine."

He was about to stalk off, now severely irritated and convinced everything was the fault of this annoyingly innocent little boy, when something else happened to make his heart stand still.

"Thief!"

"Pickpocket!"

"Stop! Theif!"

He prepared to run, assuming, naturally, that they were after him. Another boy streaked past him, a determined grimace on his face, clutching a wallet in one hand, holding his tattered black cap on his head with the other.

No, Dodger thought. This can't be possible! First Oliver, and now him?

One thing was for certain, it couldn't be a co-incidence.

Dodger ran as fast as his legs could carry him, quickly catching up to the boy. The latter gave a yelp of surprise as he recognized him. No. No WAY. This was impossible!

"DODGE? What the-"

The crowd was gaining on the two boys now…they ducked into an alleyway and kept running, Charley laughing now in the thrill of the chase, with Dodger back by his side. This was ridiculous, in too good to be true fashion. And yet, he was here! His partner, The Artful Dodger! Charley and Dodger, together again!

Not to mention running from the traps.

"C'mon!" Dodger cried, spotting a familiar turning point. "We gotta try-"

"An' lose this lot!" Charley puffed. "Think I don't know tha', mate?"

They swiftly turned the corner, hurrying through a labyrinth of alleyways, up courts and backstreets, soon leaving the crowd far behind. When he was sure it was safe, Dodger stopped and leant against the wall, trying to catch his breath. Charley meanwhile collapsed onto the cobblestones, chuckling away like a man possessed.

"I…can't…believe it!" he choked out in between frantic howls of laughter. "You…me…the traps…ha ha ha…wos tha' OLIVER you were with, mate?"

Dodger nodded.

"He…sneaked up on me."

"Tha's…flippin'….funny!" gasped Charley, still rolling about like a goon.

"'Spose it is…" Dodger replied, starting to laugh a little himself. Of all the people to have been running from the traps down that particular street at that time of day, it just had to be his best mate!

"I'm so glad I found you mate, you 'ave no idea!"

"Same!" Charley said, seeming to have returned to his usual state of mirth, staggering to his feet and adjusting his tattered cap. "But…Fagin won't be pleased to see me, will 'e?"

"He's sorry for wot 'e said!" Dodger said quickly. "'E regrets it. We tried to change too…it just didn't work. Wait…you said you were tryin' to change, why'd you nick a guy's wallet?"

Charley had the grace to look a little ashamed.

"I've been out of practice…" he said finally. "I'm tryin' to change…but it's harder than I thought…I can't just turn my back on the past like tha'…I'm such a flippin' 'ypocrite Dodge! I wos ranting on to you an' Fagin, tellin' yer to change, but look at me! I-"

Dodger threw his arm around his old friend's shoulders.

"Don't worry Charley," he said, with grave sincerity. "You'll fit right in with Fagin an' me. We feel the same way."

Charley nodded. "Thanks mate. I can always count on you, can't I?"

"Course," replied Dodger, trying not to go all sentimental although the moment touched him. "Always. You an' me are partners, ain't we?"

Charley nodded again. "Together till our dyin' day."

--

**A/N: ** A reunion with Oliver AND Charley! ^^ Aren't I nice?

Great plot ideas guys, thanks! Any more? =)

Hope you liked this chapter; please R&R!


	15. Ailing

Chapter Fourteen - Ailing

Dodger and Charley made their way back to Fagin's, laughing and talking away as they'd used to, broad grins stretching each of their faces. Dodger was relieved to have found Charley again; Charley was just happy to be with his best mate. The pair of them only hoped Fagin would be as happy when Charley returned to the loft…

"Plummy an' slam!"

Harry opened the door to admit them, not seeming at all surprised at Charley's re-appearance (after all, Fagin had lied and told them he was out on the job, neglecting to tell them he'd in fact run away).

"'Ello Charley! 'Ello Dodge! Get any good stuff?"

The boys nodded and followed the younger pickpocket to the table. Fagin was sitting at its head, poring over his account book, his brow furrowed. He greeted Dodger without looking up, merely holding out his hand for Dodger's goods.

It was Dodger's turn to frown; this wasn't normal Fagin-like behavior (if any behavior of his benefactor could constitute normal). He handed the days goods over to Fagin all the same; Fagin opened the wallets one-handedly, took out the cash and stuffed it in his pockets.

"Um…Fagin?" Dodger asked, as Charley looked perplexedly at the both of them. "Are you all right?"

"Of course I am!" snapped Fagin, scrawling something hurriedly into a margin. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Charley's back, Fagin!" piped up Harry, still present. "Ain't you glad to see 'im?"

Fagin started, dropping his quill and upsetting his ink bottle in the process; the black liquid soon seeped all over his page of painstakingly scrawled notes, but for once the old man didn't seem to notice. He stared up at Charley, his eyes wide, mouth agape.

"Wh-what…h-how…" he stammered. "I thought…you'd left…"

Dodger's frown deepened. Hadn't Fagin just said, earlier today, that he was sorry he couldn't bring Charley back? He wanted to, but he didn't know how he could? Why was he reacting like this; shouldn't he be happy that Charley had come back with him?

"What did you come 'ere for?" hissed Fagin. "Get out, y'hear me? GET OUT!"

The three boys backed away at Fagin's sudden aggressive tone; Harry had gone white and Charley looked terrified. Dodger felt the same way, but tried not to show it to try and support his friends. He was utterly perplexed…he'd heard these words before…they all had…

"Fagin?" asked Charley, his eyes wide.

The old man shrank back in his chair, cowering away from him as if he were a snake about to strike.

"H-how much, Bill?" he stuttered, his voice hoarse. He pulled his own purse from his pocket and, with trembling fingers, began to count out coins. "Ten? Twenty?" He offered the money to Charley with a shaking hand, his whole frame trembling with fright.

Charley shook his head and backed further away; Harry's lip was shaking and Dodger himself felt sick to his stomach. This wasn't right…he thought Charley was Bill…was he hallucinating…was he ill?

"All of it?" whimpered Fagin, gingerly holding out the purse.

"No Fagin!" Dodger said firmly. "'E don't want yer cash…'e ain't Bill!"

"What did you do?" Fagin muttered, his hand curling around his purse again. "What did you _do_?"

Dodger hurried to Fagin's side. The man's eyes had a lost look, as if he had no idea where he was, and his forehead was drenched in perspiration.

Dodger's heart sank. He was ill again.

"Fagin…c'mon…" he said, slinging the old man's arm around his shoulder as he had done to get him home after the gin incident. "We gotta get you to bed…"

Charley and Harry hung back, afraid, as Dodger tugged Fagin from the chair and steered him towards his quarters. Dodger had only been behind the tattered curtain that separated Fagin's domain from the others once and that had only been to fetch Fagin some parchment he kept in his desk.

The small space was cramped and dark; heavy with the scent of gin and candle wax. Papers covered in Fagin's untidy scrawl lay here and there about the floor, the small desk in the corner stood on three unstable legs, its surface smeared with candle wax and ink stains. Fagin's bed, in the corner of the room, was rickety and rust coloured. The single sheet atop it was crumpled and stained with ink blots and spilt gin.

Dodger helped Fagin to the bed, the man himself protesting all the while that there was no time for sleep as the traps would be at the door any minute. Dodger endeavored as best he could to calm him down and, after a few minutes frantic reassurances that they police weren't about to break down the door and kill them all, Fagin succumbed to sleep.

As Dodger backed away from Fagin's bedside, he found himself wiping away tears. What had happened to Fagin? What was happening to them all?

When he returned to the main loft, it was to find Harry and Charley seated at the table, Charley attempting to comfort Harry who looked close to tears.

"Is 'e alright?" Charley asked Dodger as he made to sit down opposite them.

Dodger shook his head grimly. He wasn't.

A knock at the door startled them all from their melancholy musings. Dodger hurried over but was relieved of any worry by the sound of Jamie's voice and the familiar password. He let the little lad in; he looked so cheerful, especially amongst the gloomy threesome.

"You'll never guess wot I managed to nick today!" cried Jamie proudly, emptying his pockets onto the table. Three wallets, five handkerchiefs, half a currant bun, a pocketwatch…

Dodger smiled weakly at him. "Good work, mate, good work!" he said, trying his hardest to sound enthusiastic.

"Thanks!" Jamie gushed, not seeming to notice that Dodger was putting on an act. "Don't ya think Fagin'll be pleased? Where is 'e anyway?"

"Asleep," Charley said quickly, before Dodger could come up with a reply. "'E's tired."

Jamie gave a childish pout, but said no more on the subject.

The rest of the evening passed in this vein; Fagin didn't emerge from his back room so the boys had to fend for themselves where dinner was concerned.

Hungrier than usual, tired and scared, the foursome lay down to sleep as the steeple clock struck eleven.

It was one of the longest nights of their lives.

--

A/N: I'm so cruel. D:

R&R my dears! =)


	16. In The Light Of Day

Chapter Fifteen – In The Light Of Day

The next day passed in very much the same way; quiet and sombre, hardly a word passed between the boys. No constant chatter from Harry and Jamie, no laughter from Charley.

The members of the gang may have been back together, but they'd never felt further apart.

Another day passed.

Then the third day dawned.

The two youngest had gone out on the job, but Dodger had stayed back, feeling too numb and scared to risk it. Charley, noticing this, had deigned it best to stay and comfort his friend, although he had little comfort to give. Fagin didn't seem to be any better. He was still weak and trembling, and he kept muttering in his sleep; murmurs of fear, hatred, regret…

Dodger was scared to go near him, and he hated himself for it.

He and Charley were seated at the worn wooden table; Charley smoking his pipe with much less enthusiasm than normal; more for something to do than anything else. Dodger sat with his chins in his hands, gazing blankly at the tabletop as if trying to engrave every groove of the woodwork into his memory.

Both boys were so engrossed in trying to distract themselves from the situation at hand that they didn't notice their benefactor until he had limped over to them and sat himself down.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I my dears?"

Charley dropped his pipe in surprise, his mouth hanging open. Dodger too gasped; was it he who was hallucinating now? Was Fagin really there? Or was he dreaming? He pinched himself hard…nope, this wasn't a dream…

"N-no…" he managed to choke out, hardly daring to hope that this was real despite the pinch. "We ain't doin' anythin'…"

"So I see."

"Fagin…you alright?"

"Yes, Dodger, that I am." The old man smiled warmly at him; he seemed genuinely fine; happy and kind, just like he used to be, before all of this, just like the Fagin he used to know…

"It's just-"

"I know, my dear, I know. Bet you were thinkin' I'd finally lost my marbles, eh?"

"Um…yes. No offence."

"None taken, my dear, none at all. I can't blame you…"

Fagin tailed off, turning to face Charley, his lip trembling a little at the sight of him. Charley himself looked a little scared, he had every right to be after the last time he and Fagin had met, but he stayed where he was and didn't back away.

"I'm sorry, my dear," Fagin said, his voice tremulous. "I don't know what came over me…I thought…I thought…"

It was only then that Fagin broke down completely, his skeletal frame wracked with heaving sobs. Both boys did their best to comfort him, and after a minute or so, Fagin managed to compose himself to speak again.

"Wh-what have I done?" he said shakily. "To you, me…all of us. What'll become of us all, my dears? Look at what I've put you all through…you said it yourself Charley my dear. Maybe we should…maybe we should just…stop picking pockets? Turn over new leaves once and for all?"

Who would have guessed that making up one's mind would be so difficult? There were good sides and bad to every scenario that Fagin came up with, not matter how hard he mulled it over. Why couldn't he just make a decision and stick with it?

"Fagin," Dodger said gently, trying to calm the old man down. He hated it when Fagin got like this, all self-accusatory and melancholy. Where were the days of laughter and joy; the days they used to know? Where was the old Fagin; the one who could share a joke, tell a story…he was long gone. Dodger hadn't seen him in months.

"Fagin, please," he continued, laying a hand on the man's shoulder. "This ain't your fault. I can't blame ye fer not knowin' wot to do…this life is tough, we all know tha'. An' you're the one that's gotta make all the decisions. Gawd knows we all make mistakes sometimes…even you. Don't beat yerself up about it. Everythin'll be alright…we'll make it through. We all will. Whether we pick pockets or not."

Charley nodded firmly, Dodger was right. He'd taken the words right out of his mouth, not that he could have come up with that little speech. He only hoped Fagin would listen.

A weak smile broke across Fagin's features, a tentative expression that soon became one of joy, triumph, determination.

"Maybe you should be leadin' this little gang of ours, Dodge!" he said, with a chuckle. "You always know wot's right. We'll all make it through, won't we? All of us together."

"Fagin's Boys!" piped up Charley proudly, raising a clenched fist in the air.

Dodger copied him, and the pair soon began listing all the brilliant and admirable qualities that the gang possessed.

"Talented!"

"Crafty!"

"Artful!"

"Light-fingered!"

"Clever!"

"Tough!"

"'Andsome!"

"Yeah right Dodge!"

"It's true, Charley, I swear!"

Fagin managed to intervene before the boys could go any further.

"There's one thing you seem to be forgetting my dears…"

"Wot's that Fagin?" asked the two boys, grinning away like anything.

"The incredible genius at the 'ead of the table."

The three of them laughed now, a sound Dodger for one thought he would never hear again. Everything would be alright; they'd get through this, all of them, no matter what happened. Fagin's Boy's to the end, forever and always.

_Together till our dyin' day._

--

**A/N: **It's short. D: But you know what they say. Short and sweet. :3 Thanks to Katarina Sparrow 19 for chapter inspiration!

Look at the last line again. It's important.

R&R my dears!


	17. An Old Man

Chapter Sixteen – An Old Man

The following morning, the boys awoke bright and early, ready to face the day. Every one of them, even those who hadn't been present in the conversation the previous day, bore a broad smile. Everything was back to normal, the way it should be. Everything would be fine from now on; they'd stick together no matter what happened.

Fagin sent the boys on their way soon after breakfast; they all promised to be back soon with wallets and handkerchiefs aplenty. Satisfied, Fagin closed the door as they scampered merrily away. Still grinning although the lads were long gone, he began to clear away the breakfast thing, whistling as he worked.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this happy, this light of heart. He and the boys had undergone a great change; no longer were they worried or apprehensive about the future, but they saw each day as golden, another chance, full of opportunity.

The cleaning done, Fagin settled himself in his armchair, pulling his pipe from his pocket and lighting it with aplomb. Having sat there a moment or two, he stood up again and instead moved the chair to the window (a place he'd been scared to sit at before) to observe the hustle and bustle of the city at his leisure.

From his lofty vantage point, Fagin could see London mapped out beneath him, a sprawling riot of smog, smell and sound. His grin widened as he simply sat and watched the view, serenely puffing away at his pipe as he did so.

It had been years, he realized with a jolt, since he had been this happy. This peaceful. This free.

It would last this time, he knew it would. He would make it last.

No matter that he was an old man, getting older every day. Best to savour the moment.

Tugging his pipe from between his teeth, he scurried over to the cupboard and procured the gin bottle. He poured himself a large measure and downed it in one gulp. Heck, he deserved it. A celebratory glass of gin; was that so wrong?

As was usual with Fagin, one celebratory glass led to another.

And another.

Soon it was time for a pre-eighth measure snooze.

But even as he slept, breath heavy with the scent of spirit, Fagin still had an infectious smile plastered to his face.

What a fine life he led.

--

_Rat-a-tat-tat._

Fagin cracked open one bloodshot eye.

Wh-what…how long had he been asleep? He pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket.

Hmmm.

Two in the afternoon.

Strange…the boys shouldn't be back yet. At least, they weren't normally. Maybe this was some new routine they'd cooked up; coming home earlier than usual just to surprise him? Or maybe this was the time they always came home, he'd merely forgotten?

He staggered to his feet, and immediately wished he hadn't. His head throbbed painfully; his legs could barely support him…How much had he had to drink anyway? Just one glass, right? Or maybe two. Or three. Even more?

Muttering curses on himself, the gin, the gin manufacturers and everything else under the sun that he felt like, Fagin made his slow and painful progress towards the door. The knocking was getting louder and more impatient.

Wait.

Since when did the boys knock?

Fagin yawned. Maybe they'd decided to knock now instead of using the password. Had it only been a couple of hours since he'd drank that gin? It felt like an eternity…

When he opened the door, therefore, he was very surprised to find, not any of the boys at all, but rather two of Her Majesty's police force, resplendent in their dark blue uniforms, smug grins on their faces.

All of Fagin's weariness and confusion vanished in an instant.

_The traps._

How could they be here…now…just when everything had turned out for the best…it was all over…what would the boys say when they arrived back to find him gone?

He backed away hurriedly…he had to escape somehow…but even as he stumbled backwards over his own feet he felt the firm grips of the policemen on his arms and knew there was no way out. Not this time.

The overwhelming fear and panic which soon engulfed him must have shown on his face, for the policemen laughed as the handcuffs clinked into place on his wrists.

This couldn't be happening…surely this was some crazy dream brought about by the gin…he'd wake up in a moment, back in his armchair to wait for the lads…wouldn't he?

It was only then, as the police dragged him down the rickety wooden steps, through the slums and the streets where crowds had gathered to jeer and gesticulate, towards the courthouse, only then did the realization hit him.

He would never see the boys again.

Tears welled up in the old man's eyes as he shuffled along between the officers, training his eyes on the cobblestones to try and avoid the hostile glares, the shouts of triumph, the catcalls, jeers and insults directed his way.

To an unknowing bystander, the sight alone would have been sickening, let alone the jubilant cries and the vicious taunting that came hand in hand with it. Respectable people turned half mad; shaking their fists, faces red, eyes bulging, mouths wide in screamed and shouts of fury and hatred for the terrified old man, trembling in their midst. Even the little children were caught up in the mob; screeching and shrieking, throwing stones, their parents doing nothing at all to restrain them.

One such stone struck the back of Fagin's head and he stumbled, the crowd only laughed and hollered louder. The old man's stomach churned as he tore his eyes from the cobbles for a fraction of a second. He never would have guessed how terrifying it would be, to be in the centre of a mob that salivated for your blood, like a pack of rabid dogs.

The police made no effort to control the crowd; indeed, they seemed to relish it, despite its hindering their progress towards the courthouse. This would make the front page; their names would be in bold print! No reason to hurry; best to savour the moment.

As the yells and screams continued to escalate, Fagin tried desperately to come up with one last plan of escape. There must be some way surely…he tried to reach for his back pocket, but the iron grips the policemen had on his arms were so strong as to make them go numb. Even if he could escape the police, he realized, there was nowhere to run. The crowd surrounded them on all sides.

Fagin bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood. The metallic taste did nothing except increase his feeling of nausea and he quickly stopped, feeling the sickening sensation of the crimson liquid trickling down his chin.

At long last, the policemen and Fagin were at the doors to the courthouse. Fagin was uncertain whether he'd rather be here or back amongst the crowd…

--

He needn't have worried. Another crowd awaited him inside the court, this one even worse than the last.

He barely registered a word that anyone spoke, so lost was he in his confused and terrified thoughts. He hardly knew the handcuffs were off him until he felt himself wringing his hands in agitation.

The jury filed out and Fagin watched them go; sombre, like soldiers heading for battle, their faces unreadable.

They returned minutes later; what was there to deliberate?

Guilty.

Guilty, _guilty_, guilty, **guilty**.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Fagin looked up at the beak, his eyes wet with unshed tears.

"That's me, m'lord…an old man…an old, old man…"

--

Dodger, Charley, Harry and Jamie arrived back at the den at their usual time; three o clock.

They were eager to show Fagin the results of the day's work.

But he wasn't there.


	18. Hang Everything

Chapter Seventeen – Hang Everything

All too soon, the fateful day arrived. The gallows were built and the noose tested. The crowd had been gathering in scores since the previous night, all eager to see the hanging of the infamous old pickpocket. As the sun rose over the rooftops, Dodger, Charley, Jamie and Harry all hurried from the den towards Newgate Prison. By now they knew what had happened. They knew there was nothing they could do to help, unless they wanted to get caught themselves. Dodger wasn't even sure why they were going to the prison; to see Fagin at his weakest and most terrified? What good would it do them to see him like that? What good would it do _him_?

The morning was cold but bright; birds chirped as they swooped freely about the skies, and the crowd about the gallows chattered and laughed. It all sounded so merry and cheerful, but the event to come was anything but. The platform was draped in black; a hulking structure of terror and misery. The sight of it made the four boys quail; they couldn't even begin to imagine how Fagin felt.

--

Even Fagin wasn't sure what he felt. His time in the cells had driven him over the edge. He was gone; he'd grown worse as time drew on but it was now too late to save him. The abject terror, the horror, the fury…it had all been too much for even his cunning mind to bear. He was completely lost to the world now, nothing but a shell of the man he once had been.

He was huddled on the worn wooden bench, as he had been for the past two days, shuddering with fear, wringing his hands, lamenting, sobbing, and gesticulating wildly at images only he could see. When the two policemen entered the death cell to retrieve him, he cowered away as far as he possibly could; shrieking curses and threats at them as it that would somehow make them go away.

But it didn't.

He was hauled to his feet and dragged towards the door. When he refused to walk of his own will one of the men grew impatient and dealt him a sharp blow to the head; he staggered forwards with a cry of pain, tears coursing down his face.

The man grumbled, satisfied, and continued to haul the helpless old man from the prison and towards the gallows; his other companion averting his eyes, ashamed at his partner's behavior towards the accused.

Strange; a policeman with a shred of pity.

That was what Fagin would have said if he'd had the strength. But he hadn't that strength any more.

--

As Fagin emerged from the jail, dragged by the two policemen towards the platform, the yells and hollers from the crowd were nearly deafening. Jamie covered his ears, trying in vain to blot out the bloodthirsty roar.

Dodger stared in horror at the old man. Never in all his life had he seen him so wretched; his eyes bloodshot and baggy, his hair a tangle, his skin as pale as a ghost, the bones showing clearly through the paper thin flesh. He was screaming; Dodger could hear him even over the noise of the crowd; screams of terror and pain that made him wince to be privy to them. He stole a glance at Charley; the boy's eyes were downcast. He couldn't watch this…

Fagin was marched up the platform stepped, the policeman at his side replaced by the masked executioner. He cried afresh at the sight of him; a terrifying figure to behold, dressed all in black, only his eyes visible through his mask.

The old man turned away from him, scanning the crowd, hoping against hope to see a friendly face…someone who could help him…anyone…he couldn't face this alone…he couldn't endure this, simply waiting for the platform to collapse beneath his feet…

The boys.

They were here! Dodger, Charley, Harry, Jamie! His boys! His fine fellows, his clever dogs! For a moment a small smile broke over his face, a smile which faded as quickly as it had appeared. They were here to see him swing. To see him dead.

"D-Dodger…" he whispered, his voice too hoarse for even himself to hear. "Charley…"

He felt his hands being pulled behind his back and tied fast; the rope burning and scorching just as badly as the handcuffs had. He winced, gritting his teeth against the pain. He knew he had only second left to live…

_Give me one long last look, bless ya…_

Even if he had found the words, or the strength to call them, he couldn't have. Moments after he muttered the names of his most beloved boys the rough black hood was jammed over his head, plunging him into darkness.

The tearstained faces of his loyal lads were the last things Fagin saw.

He was dragged blindly to his place on the platform, the rope soon slung about his neck. If he had felt fear before, it was nothing compared to this. All he had left in the world, all that he knew, was the moment when the rope would go taught, and the ground beneath his feet would vanish. In those fleeting seconds, despite the darkness of the hood, Fagin closed his eyes.

And prayed.

--

The hangman's hand inched towards the lever. Charley looked away, his face a sickly green. Harry covered Jamie's eyes, his own squeezed tightly shut. Dodger found he was holding his breath.

A hush descended on the crowd.

--

The rope grew taught.

The platform dropped away.

And with it, Fagin's life.

--

FINIS


End file.
